I have to ask. “Where’s Donag?”
“She’s away for the day.”
“Wait.” Something about his expression gives me pause. “The whole day?”
When he turns to face me, he’s wearing a pleased smirk. “Aye, ’twas Aoife who helped me. She told the laird hesounds thick in the chest. The old Campbell’s a worrier, you ken.”
“No, I don’t ken.” I picture the Campbell—a raging old man who flaunts his power, sending people to the pit with a snap of his fingers. “What doeshehave to worry about?”
“What doesn’t cause the man worry? He’s afeared for his health, wealth, and immortal soul. Folk call him Black Campbell, nae for his hair but for his humor. The man’s as grim and ill-tempered as a wet cat. I believe he’s fair fashed he’ll die before his Janet returns. So, when Aoife said she sensed noxious humors coming upon him, and that all she needed was a bunch of sweet cicely to make her special tonic, but the only person who properly kens the look of the herb is Donag, well…”
“Campbell made Donag go pick some,” I finish for him, unable to stop my grin.
“Aye, you’ve the right of it, my Rosie lass. And ’twill cheer you to know the cicely grows half a day’s walk from here.”
I can’t help it. With a joyful shout, I spring into him and give him a huge hug. “Thank you!”
Maybe my bar has lowered since I got here, but I can’t imagine a more thoughtful gift than a tiny tub of lukewarm water and an empty cottage. “That is such a better present than any stupid dress.”
But Callum froze the moment I slammed into him. He’s holding his arms rigidly akimbo, like he has no idea what to do with them.
I start to pull back, suddenly unsure. As I step away, I feel the moment he breathes again. The subtle rise of his chest against mine.
Slowly, he unlocks. Pulling me back in, hemolds his arms around me. Squeezes. I can’t hold back the deep, delicious sigh that shudders through me.
But Rose-the-Responsible is always just below the surface, and she chooses now to ruin the moment, letting a whole new set of worries seep in.
I push away. “You’re not skipping work to be here, are you? You can’t get in trouble again because of me.”
A sly, knowing smile curls the corner of his mouth.
“The laird himself gave me the day. Once I explained how I feel a powerful need to spend this Sunday fulfilling my God-fearing obligations.”
I take another step back. Narrow my eyes. “Wait. You do?”
He laughs. “Nae, lass. But with yesterday being Martinmas, well, Campbell quite agreed. As I said, he’s a religious man. He granted many of his servants the day so they might rest from their work and contemplate greater things. So here I’ve come, to contemplate greater things.”
He raises his brow in the most wicked of ways. That thing should be classified as a weapon.
“And here I thought Hamish was doing me some great favor by giving me the day off.”
“Heed me,” he says, instantly serious. “The fewer favors you owe Hamish, the better.”
My nod is perfunctory. Nothing is about to get me down today. Not even Hamish. The only thing on my mind is all that water hanging over the dancing flames. I’m practically tapping my feet on the floor with anticipation.
Callum sought out the Campbell. Enlisted Aoife. Disappeared Donag. He found a tub and buckets, and hauled them out here. All soI could wash in peace.
A peculiar warmth floods my chest. Something weightier than gratitude.
“So…” I gesture lamely at the buckets. Like a complete moron. “You did all this for me?”
“Do others do so little?” His reply is quick, heartfelt.
I open my mouth to defend my world, but then I shut it again. He has a point. Poppa is thoughtful, when he has a chance to be. Otherwise, I’m usually the one doing the heavy lifting for the people in my life.
Callum lets me silently contemplate this as he empties the buckets, two pots, and Donag’s kettle into the tub.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and soft. “You have a wee soak, Rosie. I’ll be back midmorning to fetch you.”
